Illusion of Love
by Caness
Summary: A little AU piece. First chapter is bordering on noncon PeterSylar with Plaude implications. Other chapter is Plaude flangstbecause we know thee so well. Candice is presumed dead as Sylar has her ability. Enjoy.
1. SyterPear PWPthing :x

http://community. you sure?" Sylar grinned toothily, his face much too close. He wound his large hand in the other man's hair in a gesture that could have been construed as gentle, but the empath knew better.

Peter tried to squirm away but he was frozen, literally frozen to the ground. He closed his eyes, willing this to stop. It didn't, of course, and he whimpered as Sylar began angrily removing his coat.

The murderer bit sharply every inch of exposed flesh he revealed, sometimes drawing blood and other times leaving the swollen flesh. Peter's heartbeat hammered in Sylar's ears and he had to bite back a moan as the slighter man quivered against him.

"Are you sure he loves you?" Sylar reiterated gruffly, pulling back from Peter's angry looking red welts running across his shoulders and down his arms, smiling as they healed before his eyes.

The empath inhaled sharply, ghost-like memories of Claude's fingertips mapping out his flesh with calloused hands. A too-smooth palm rested on his stomach, stroking lightly through the fabric of his tee-shirt. Peter looked up meeting brown eyes _not grey _eyes with a steely glare.

Sylar chuckled; the sound made Peter sick, but he wasn't fighting anymore. He didn't want to and it wasn't worth it. Claude had left him and Sylar was devastatingly _right_. He cringed at that thought, finding that it struck a little too close to the truth.

Peter was completely at the mercy of the serial killer as he stole the younger man's mouth in a mockery of a kiss. He felt as though he were being eaten, tasting that familiar metallic twang in the back of his throat. He let out a strangled cry as Sylar's domineering tongue entered his lips, bruising nearly on impact. The taller man dug his _too_ long nails into Peter's side where his fingers were still resting. Peter hissed, feeling Sylar's hardness press into his thigh.

The long-haired boy's vision went a little wobbly and suddenly it was Claude taking him over, making him his. He shuddered in delight.

"You came back," he whispered, smiling contentedly as a small tear tracked down his cheek.

Claude _not really Claude _grinned, a bit too widely. Peter winced as the man before him raised his shirt up and off of his chest, running his hands across the pale flesh of his exposed flesh in fascination. His body responded in kind, shimmering and flickering in and out of visibility.

Claude _Sylar _tugged at a nipple experimentally, rubbing himself into Peter's hip. There were too many clothes, just like always, and Peter's brain was at odds with moral choices. His hardening length didn't seem to have the same dilemma as he fought himself not to seek more contact.

Peter found his pants and boxers completely removed, and he couldn't remember why that sounded wrong. Small, involuntary sounds of pleasure were reverberating in Sylar's head, causing him to pant softly with need.

The fake Claude grasped Peter solidly, eliciting a long moan from the empath's diaphragm. He began running his hand up and down in languid strokes that were driving Peter mad with the urge to thrust. Somehow, he held himself in check as Sylar!Claude stepped forward to take his earlobe between his teeth. Peter was feeling so _violated _but was blinded by his need for the invisible man.

Precum dripped from Peter's length as a strong thumb encircled the head. Claude's lips came down into the crook of his neck, lapping as Peter threw back his head in abandon. The delicacy was such a contrast from earlier that his hips rocked forward into Sylar's hand.

Sylar smirked through Claude's face and it looked utterly unnatural, but Peter wasn't looking anywhere but up anymore. Claude dropped to his knees, lips hovering over Peter's erection, blowing cool air over the head and gripping the boy's hips loosely.

Peter pitched into the kneeling man's barely parted lips. There was no holding back now. Sylar tightened his hold on Peter's hips and surged forward, swallowing the head. Peter practically screamed, bringing his hands to lace in the older man's hair, pushing slowly deeper. Claude bobbed his head, scruffy beard scraping along Peter's balls as he went.

He hummed when his lips were as close to the base as he could manage, undoing Peter with the simple vibration. The young man screamed his release, fingers clenching and unclenching in Sylar's hair. Before Peter could clear his head enough to register that this was Sylar _not Claude _the newfound illusionist inserted a finger into the tight canal before him.

Peter wiggled, trying to gauge how the foreign digit felt, but Sylar didn't allow him the luxury. He stood up, forcing his finger even deeper. The empath bit his lip as white hot pain surged through him. Sylar added another finger, lunging forward to bite Peter's lips. He scissored and scratched at the smaller man's insides, licking up the small droplets of blood that escaped Peter's mouth.

He soon grew tired of this game, and forced himself inside Peter who made a desperate sound laced with self-loathing and _pain_. He waved away the ice that held Peter's boot clad feet floor, hooking an ankle around his own hip. Peter brought his fist to his mouth, biting down as Sylar pulled out and thrust back in. He forced his hand deeper to keep his pained cries from reaching the psychopath's ears and exciting him further. He shuddered at the image.

And then Sylar is coming inside of him with a sated snarl and Peter is whimpering brokenly.

"I am coming back," Sylar whispers in his ear, and it's all Peter can do not to vomit. "Unlike him." He snorts, leaving the empath to sort himself out. And then his stomach contents are spilling all over the floor.


	2. Confirmation and Return

Claude hurries down the street now, faster… faster. He knows he can be cruel but he hadn't meant to be gone so long. It is truly a testament to his worthlessness that New York is still whole. Placing his hand on the door, he knows something is out of place. He shrugs and enters, ever-grateful for the cloak of invisibility that surrounds him.

_Peter. _A beat, Claude struggles to take a breath. _Is that blood?_

"You know what it is," Peter hisses, and Claude starts, happy his boy is okay even as he winces at his words. He takes a cautious step forward, and Peter moans; shifts. _This is all my fault. _

_Of course it is, you evil bastard. _But Peter says nothing, his face a determined line of obstinance. He's curled in on himself, facing away from Claude on the hardwood floor.

Claude comes closer still. Peter flinches.

"Haven't you already done enough damage?" Peter's voice is rough and cracking with emotion. He won't cry, not for a serial murderer who had just raped him.

"Who did this to you?" Claude exhales, kneeling down next to Peter now, brushing the boy's hair away from his eyes. And is it just him, or is there less of it?

_What a stupid question_, Peter thinks bitterly, turning his head to meet _too grey _eyes. He blinks. No, not _too _grey; just the right amount of grey. "Claude?" the question bubbles up in his through like bile, and he chokes down a sob of pure grief, burying his head in the older man's lap.

Claude frowns; stroking the empath's ears and banishing away his thoughts of _can't feel this _and _shouldn't do this_. "Who did this to you?" he repeats with more urgency, slipping in a little bit of well-placed anger.

"You did," Peter whispers, and then the tears are coming.

Claude takes in the scene around him: Peter's clothes strewn carelessly about his prone form, small pools of dried blood under and around the empath. The invisible man inhales sharply, mottling bruises mapped along Peter's thighs, hips, face… He removes his jacket, realizing that Peter is shivering. He brings the tattered thing around the boy's neck, huddling him close for warmth. The heat appears to have been shut off days ago.

Peter is crying, his entire body racked with _aguish. _Is Claude even really here?

"I'm 'ere, Pete," Claude vows, running his hand along Peter's back and arms to warm him. Peter wonders idly when Claude got the ability to read minds, and a small smile graces his thin lips as the tears finally stop.

"You came back," Peter muses, propping himself up on Claude's knee. He wants to see the man, but he also has to keep confirming that those eyes are grey; that they _stay _grey. He pushes himself up off the ground just enough to be eye-level with the older man, capturing his lips in a chaste kiss before Claude can protest.

Claude makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, but when Peter tries to pull away his large, steadying hands rest on either shoulder, keeping the ragged coat firmly about the slight frame. He deepens the kiss, pulling the smaller man to his chest protectively, lips healing what words cannot.

_I came back_, Claude echoes, knowing Peter will hear.


End file.
